Han Li watched Li Feiyu's receding figure until it had dwindled to a dim speck and vanished among the distant trees. He stood rooted to the spot, silent, unmoving, his thoughts running deep.
Only that noon had they agreed that Li Feiyu should come to collect the medicine on the following day; and no sooner was the pact struck than the man had taken his leave of Han Li, saying he must go back and nurse his strength a while longer. Through all the long hours since, Han Li had never once pressed him as to why he took that secret, ruinous remedy. He knew that even were he to ask, the asking would change nothing of what had already been done.
Since the man would sooner throw away every dream of his future, bartering them all for the fleeting splendor and glory of the "Senior Brother Li" of the present moment, he must surely have had compelling reasons of his own that left him no choice. No man kills himself willingly—not even by slow degrees, not even when the toll is paid in agony. And if Han Li had pressed him for those reasons, he would only have torn open, dripping once more, a wound that had barely begun to scab.
Plainly, Han Li had judged aright. As he went away, Li Feiyu saw that Han Li had not once pressed him over why he took the Marrow-Draining Pill, and was deeply grateful for this consideration, though he said not a word of it aloud. Yet Han Li knew well that the other man now owed him another favor, small or great.
Han Li meant to honor the pact to the letter. Not only would he keep the man's secret close, but he had resolved that the very moment he returned to the valley he would compound a secret remedy to dull the pain that plagued him.
Why did he trouble himself so? For the plainest reason in the world: since Li Feiyu was no villain, and had not truly sought to cut him down, Han Li would make the man owe him a favor all the greater—so great that he could not well refuse whatever request Han Li might make of him in days to come.
In the years left to him, Li Feiyu's martial skill could only climb higher and higher. And the higher that skill rose, the more likely the man might once prove of use to Han Li. Even should Han Li have no need of his aid through all those years, what of it? To lend a light and honest hand to a man who was no great rogue was in itself a pleasant thing, a comfort to body and mind alike. Li Feiyu might not be assuredly a good man, but at least, after all that had passed this day, he would never again do Han Li any harm.
Han Li turned over the whole affair in his mind, from beginning to end, and judged that he had missed nothing. Only then did he set off at a leisurely pace, retracing his steps toward Spirit Hands Valley.
He had been back within the valley but a little while when he set about preparing the secret remedy Li Feiyu needed. The drug that blunted the body's perception of pain was nothing hard to compound; every ingredient could be found in the herb garden among the valley, and it was only the making that proved fussy work, needing patient and careful hands.
After an afternoon's busy labor, Han Li had finished enough of the finished remedy to last Li Feiyu a full year. He could have made more, readily enough; but he chose not to, for he hoped that the man would be obliged to return for fresh store every year, and so would not let this debt of gratitude slip gently from his memory.
By nightfall Han Li did a most unaccustomed thing. He carried a chair to the door of his lodgings and sat down in it, lifted his gaze to the star-scattered dark of the sky, and stared at the bright moon, sunk in thought.
He was remembering his family again.
More than four years had passed since he had left his father and mother. From the day he came up into the hills he had practiced the formula with all his might nearly every day, leaving himself no time to spare for household cares, and had never once come down from the mountain to visit home. He had only sent word back that a good part of his monthly allowance of silver be carried to his family, and in return, year by year, he received but a single letter, penned by old Uncle Zhang at his parents' bidding, telling him they were well. Of news there was little enough—only that life at home had grown far better than before: his eldest brother had married and set up his own household, and a fine match had been found for the second brother besides, with the wedding likely to be held the coming year. All these changes had come about solely because of the silver Han Li sent home. Yet through the greetings of those few letters Han Li had noted, with a keen and sensitive eye, that his family's manner toward him was growing ever more formal—so formal, at length, that it smacked of the courtesy one shows to a stranger. At first this unlooked-for feeling had frightened Han Li deeply, and he had not known how to answer it. But as time slipped by, for reasons he could not have named, that fear had grown strangely calm, and the faces of his family had blurred by degrees in his mind's eye.
It was only on evenings such as this, when his heart was stirred by the scene before him, that he recalled his kin once more and looked back on the warm, beloved feeling of being home—a feeling now so rare as to be all but lost to him, and all the more sweet and precious for it. He would savor that taste slowly, drop by careful drop.
Han Li laid a hand upon his chest, and through the cloth of his robe his fingers stroked the little leather pouch that held the peace charm.
On any other night, a few strokes of that charm were enough to ease his heart with a quiet satisfaction. But this night, for no reason he could tell, the stroking only set his spirit the more aflutter, and he could not settle himself for a long while.
A nameless heaviness gathered in his breast, beyond describing, and he could no longer govern his own temper. His whole body felt out of sorts, his blood and breath began to churn and seethe, and even that strange energy he had cultivated stirred and swelled, as if struggling to break free.
"Qi deviation," the dire words flashed through his mind, and a shiver ran through him. He rose from the chair, drew a deep breath, and forced himself to calm. Doctor Mo was away from home now; it fell to Han Li alone to weather this crisis.
Yet he was still puzzled. Why, with no cause at all, would his qi suddenly deviate? Now was not the moment to probe to the root of the matter, to be sure—but it was only by seizing upon the true origin of the disturbance that he could ever settle the trouble once and for all.
Han Li raised his head and let his gaze roam the clearing, hunting for anything out of the ordinary. He found nothing that caught the eye.
Then he passed his right hand over his chin, and the point of his elbow came against something bulky. Without thinking, his eyes dropped to the thing.
"Leather pouch. Peace charm." The words leaped into his mind of their own accord.
"Could it be this that has brewed so great a mischief?" Han Li could not be certain, but there was no more time for dithering. The state of his body was growing worse by the moment; at any instant he might lose all command of himself.
With sudden resolution, Han Li seized the pouch where it hung about his neck, snapped the cord, and hurled it far away with all his might.
"No—my heart grows heavier still, and the churn of blood and qi yet more violent."
With an effort he once more suppressed the turbulent stirrings within him, and fixed his bloodshot eyes stubbornly upon that little leather pouch, hunting for the reason why matters had only grown worse.